


Seriously? Right in front of my meatballs?!

by liripip



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: IKEA, M/M, Public Sex, right in front of my salad??, swedish meatballs, very serious fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-07
Updated: 2017-09-07
Packaged: 2018-12-25 01:25:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12025173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liripip/pseuds/liripip
Summary: Jack and Gabe absolutely ruin Torbjörn's lunch.





	Seriously? Right in front of my meatballs?!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [foldingcranes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/foldingcranes/gifts).



> I debated giving this a witty title but let's not kid around about what this is, yeah? 
> 
> Fill for the R76 kink meme, original here: https://reaper76-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/537.html?thread=21017#cmt21017

“Aah,” Torbjörn sighs in contentment, stepping off his new BEKVÄM step stool to settle in the HENRIKSDAL bar stool. His feet, sadly, do not reach the footrest. Easy enough to modify, that, but not while his delicious KÖTTBULLAR authentic Swedish meatballs are cooling in front of him. “This sure hits the spot.”

“It turned out great,” Morrison says, leaning his elbows on the pristine EKBACKEN countertop. Torbjörn can barely see him over the raised bar in between them, but he has more important things to be looking at. Meatballs. Finally. “And so cheap! Easy to transport, too.” 

Torbjörn nods in satisfaction. He has impressed the Americans. Soon, they will see that cheap and ubiquitous flat pack furniture is the way to go, not gratuitous military spending. With pride in his heart, he spoons a liberal helping of lingonberry jam onto his plate. 

Morrison spears a meatball on his fork and eats it. ”Mm, these are good. You sure you don’t want one, Gabe?” 

Reyes shakes his head, adding yet another spoonful of god knows what to his smoothie. It’s apparently healthy, or so he says. It looks like it came out of a swamp. 

“Eh, your loss,” Morrison says, eating his own serving with appropriate relish. Reyes finishes mixing his god-awful concoction and comes up behind Morrison, and his earlier refusal notwithstanding, steals a meatball off his plate. Morrison swats at him with his fork. 

“Hnn,” he says noncommittally, picking the empty meatball bag up and scanning the ingredients. “These look simple enough to make. What’s the big deal? It’s ground beef and egg.”

“They’re Swedish,” Torbjörn responds, brandishing his MARTORP table knife in the air until Reyes steps back behind Morrison, hands raised in surrender. 

Torbjörn shakes his head, pushing Reyes’ meatball-heresies from his mind and focusing on the restful atmosphere of their new break room. Everything is IKEA. He could almost convince himself he is home, except there’s sunlight coming through the window and that never happens in Gothenburg. 

He glances back to his companions, a comment on the graceful lines of LIATORP console table on the tip of his tongue. He hesitates. Morrison is looking… odd. He's flushed, small beads of sweat gathering at his temples. 

He knows their commander isn’t great with spicy foods, but meatballs? Surely not. 

“Are you feeling alright, Commander?” he asks, stroking his beard, and Morrison’s eyes widen. 

“Y-yes?”, he answers, laughing nervously. ”Just fine -ah! I’m fine.”

Weird. 

Torbjörn looks to Reyes, but he’s just drinking his smoothie, weighing back and forth on his feet and looking at nothing in particular. Torbjörn shrugs. It’s his boyfriend, if he’s not concerned then why should Torbjörn be? 

He eats his mashed potatoes, dreaming about pickled herring and crispbread and buttery-soft caviar in a tube. 

Then Morrison makes a… Noise. Torbjörn frowns, studying him. He is definitely sweating now. He’s also shaking, rocking back and forth, his bottom lip pressed white between clenched teeth. 

Could this be some previously unknown lingonberry allergy? 

“Are you sure you’re not catching something, Commander?” he asks, and Morrison flushes bright red, a look of horror spreading on his face as Reyes starts snickering. 

“I’m sorry, “ he wheezes, “It’s just...Catching?” Then he erupts into full scale cackling, pressing his fist to his mouth in a failed attempt to keep it in. 

Are they high? Is this some supersoldier sensitivity to meatballs? What the hell is--- No. 

They are not. 

Torbjörn slams his palms onto the counter, pushing himself up onto extended arms to glare over the countertop, and as he suspected. 

“Are you guys fucking?!” he exclaims. “Seriously? Right in front of my meatballs?!”

The nerve. The sheer audacity. And he had offered them meatballs! He jumps down onto the floor, incensed, and grabs his poor plate protectively in his arms. Then he steels himself and marches in on their side of the counter to demonstratively scape Morrison’s remaining meatballs onto his own plate, glaring at the copulating pair all the while. Morrison is hiding his face in his arms, looking about ready to sink through the floor in mortification. Reyes is bent over his back, shaking with laughter, tears of mirth in his eyes. His disgusting slugde smoothie stands forgotten next to the PLATS salt shaker. 

“Rude.” Torbjörn proclaims with all the gravitas he can muster, and storms out of the break room with a dramatic flare of his beard. 

\--------------------------------------------------------

“I cannot believe you did that.” Jack says, hiding his face in his hands. Gabriel grabs his hip, pulling him back flush to his groin. 

“I did? All I did was grope you a little. You’re the one who started grinding.”

“You pulled down my pants!”

“You handed me a packet of lube! That you,” he says, pulling back and slowly, luxuriatingly, sliding back in, relishing in not having to be circumspect anymore. “Great Strike-Commander, kept in the pocket of your strike-commanding pants.” 

“Oh my God,” Jack whines, “He’s going to report us for sexual harassment, isn’t he?”

“Heh,” Gabriel says, pressing his hand down into the small of Jack’s back to make him arch a little deeper. “You’re his boss, though. Think he’ll go to Petras?” 

“Oh my Goood,” Jack wails, breath hitching as Gabriel palms his cock through his pants. 

“Relax, baby,” Gabriel soothes, fucking him in long, smooth strokes. “The man has like eight kids and I’m pretty sure at least two were conceived on our couch. He owes us.”

“True,” Jack says on a muted groan, bracing his hands on the edge of the countertop. He spreads his legs as far as possible, restrained as they are by the pants tangled around his upper thighs, holster on his hip keeping them from being pulled down. “Alright. Bring it.” 

“Yes, sir.” Gabriel says, and he brings it, brings it until Jack is a moaning wreck twisting on their new fake marble countertop. He’s getting close, knows Jack is too, whimpering into the crook of his arm as Gabriel fondles his cock within the confines of his underwear, when -- 

“Oh my.” Ana pokes her head in through the door. “I really thought he was exaggerating.” 

Gabriel blinks at her as she wanders in, casual as anything, and pulls her lunch box out of the fridge. 

“Do you mind?” Jack asks her, voice tight, flushed red up to his hairline. 

“Do I mind?” Ana asks back, arranging her salad on a plate. “I’m not the one having sex in the break room.” She holds a bottle of salad dressing up inquiringly. “You didn’t… do anything to this, did you?”

“What the-- Ana.” Gabriel waves a hand around, gesturing to Jack, himself, Ana, her lunch, trying to express his misgivings. She stares blankly at him. “No,” he concedes finally. “We didn’t touch your dressing.”

“Good,” Ana says primly, and sits down in Torbjörn’s vacated seat. Jack looks at her. Gabriel looks at her. Ana tears open a small packet of croutons, sprinkles them over her food and takes a bite before gracing them with a look. “Oh, go on, by all means. Nothing I haven’t seen before.”

Jack hides his head in his arms. Gabriel stares at Ana, reeling a little bit at how quickly and easily she obliterated his grasp of the situation. 

“Do you mean sex in general or…?”

“Night vision,” Ana says, tapping the cheekbone under her cybernetic eye. “Why, did you think you two linking sleeping bags during the crisis was subtle?” She motions with a hand, waving them on. “It’s fine. I can’t see much beneath Jack’s coat anyway.”

Gabriel uncertainly thrusts his hips. Jack whimpers. He’s not sure if it’s in shame or pleasure. Ana picks up her phone. 

“Give your man a hand, Gabriel, he’s suffering.” 

Not knowing what the fuck else to do -- except possibly stop fucking Jack, which no -- Gabriel eases his hand back inside Jack’s twisted pants and strokes his flagging cock. It damn near twitches in his hand, surging back into full hardness, Jack’s hips slamming back against his to grind Gabriel’s cock deep inside him.

Still in the game, then. Possibly, Gabriel thinks, a little bit turned on by the situation. He pulls back, far enough that the head of his dick is pulling against the tight clutch of Jack’s asshole, almost out, slipping back in as Jack arches to push against him, moving on his cock like something out of a wet dream. 

“You good?” he whispers, pulling Jack’s back flush to his chest. No longer bent over, Gabriel can finally slip his cock out of his pants. 

“Yes,” Jack gasps, grinding back on him, “Fuck, I don’t care any more.” He turns his face toward Gabriel, pressing a wet, clumsy kiss to his cheek. “You feel so damn good.”

“You too,” Gabriel gasps, hips stuttering against Jack’s ass. He strokes his cock, firm over the shaft, twisting up light and teasing over the head. “Fuck, tell me you’re close, I can’t hold on much longer.”

“I’m close,” Jack whispers, tilting his head to the side, inviting Gabriel to kiss his neck, nuzzle into the crook of his shoulder. “So close...” he mumbles, voice blending into a breathy sigh. 

Gabriel drags his teeth up the side of his neck, and Jack’s whole body twitches in his arms, knees going out as he comes all over the cabinets. He moans, loud, sagging back against Gabriel with a dizzy laugh. 

“That’s it, babe, c’mon, give it to me,” he whispers, shimmying his hips against Gabriel’s, grabbing both his hands and pressing them to his naked abdomen, sliding them up under his shirt. “Let me have it. Feels so good.” Then he thrusts his hips back just so, and Gabriel is coming deep inside of him, clutching him close as he blinks the stars out of his eyes. 

“I hope you remembered to buy towels,” Ana says, her deadpan expression betrayed by the tiniest twitch of her lips. “Maintenance will complain if they have to clean that up.” 

Then she stands up, saunters over to the sink to wash her dishes, and leaves them with a friendly wave of her fingers.

Gabriel hides his face against the side of Jack’s neck. 

“That was weird.” he says, cuddling close, feeling a belated blush coming on. 

“We will never live this down,” Jack declares, dropping his head back against Gabriel’s shoulder. “She owns us now. Her and Torbjörn. Might as well do it in front of Reinhardt while we’re at it, he’s the nice one.” 

“Can it wait? I have to go hide in a bathroom for the rest of my life.”

“Yeah, me too. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not even a little bit sorry.


End file.
